To Distant Shores
by bisexualcharliedavis
Summary: whumptober prompt 1: Shaky Hands Charlie, Matthew, an airplane, what could go wrong?


Hi it's me and i'm putting more on my plate than ever before, this time it's whumptober. I don't know if I'll be able to complete them all and not all of them will be in this fandom but I'll give it a red hot go. warnings for flashback, panic attacks, war trauma...all the good stuff. Also..caretaker Charlie? Hm. Leave a review, let me know what you think! It's october time baby

* * *

If you asked him, Matthew would tell you that he didn't hate flying.

Because he didn't. Flying had saved his life during the war if humans hadn't decided that they wanted to leave the ground; he probably would have bled out. If humans hadn't decided to play God and get airborne, they probably would have lost the war and that's a far more terrifying prospect. They won and winning made the sacrifices worth it, or so he liked to think.

"Ha! Postcards!"

He turned to look at his traveling companion of the day. Charlie Davis. He was nothing like the staunch masculine men Matthew had served with. He wasn't leaning over a gun, or wearing his greens. He was just...Normal. Wearing an offwhite shirt, with large lapels, a slightly ill-fitting blazer, and pants to match, just as baggy. He was holding the complimentary postcards, examining the front with wide blue eyes. Clearly, he'd never had the misfortune of having to fly before.

Matthew had managed to get away with not flying since 1945, but that was not a big deal. He moved to his hometown, he became a cop, and cops by and large did not need to fly. Not that he couldn't afford to, being promoted to superintendent and not having much cause to spend his excess funds, he probably could have afforded to get himself a seat in the much quieter first class.

The noise was just about unbearable. People talking louder than they should talk above the other loud people. The waitresses walking in their loud shoes, the loud cart rolling along offering people pre-flight booze...It was almost too much for him stand. The first class had to be quieter than the tourist class, he was sure of it. He was dressed like a first-class passenger, complete with a waistcoat (that he couldn't wait to get out of, seriously how had Blake managed to wear one of this everyday?). He'd seen empty seats as they'd boarded, and he knew from some mates who'd flown before that if you looked the part they might upgrade you.

But…

He looked at Charlie, who was using the tray table to write a postcard addressed to his mother. Charlie's friend from the Military Police had managed to get them this ticket, so it seemed unfair to abandon him in tourist class when it was his favor that managed to get them here.

It was also unfair that Charlie had a contact who could afford to get the plane tickets to London on the theory that Blake may have been seen there. Even Charlie had seemed surprised, simply remarking that he'd only mentioned Blake in passing and the Military Police must have a vested interest in finding him.

Matthew didn't think it was that. He didn't know why Charlie's friend cared one inch about them finding Blake but he was sure that it wasn't good. But...Charlie had his heart set on going and initially asked Jean to come along with him, but she couldn't leave her post at the council for that long.

It was clear that he didn't want to bring Hobart, Peter or Amy, Rose was busy at her women's only magazine in Bendigo, Danny couldn't get any time off from Bonehead...So, apprehensively, Charlie had asked him.

"I know you don't like flying, but I've asked everyone else. So...Do you want to come?"

"Someone has to make sure you don't accidentally get yourself into trouble." He'd grumbled, and Charlie had smiled and said

"Great! We leave on Thursday, and Mattie says London is wet this time of year so pack a coat."

As if London was ever not rainy, of course.

"Boss?"

"Hm?" He asked, looking up from where he was starring at the tray table in front of him to Charlie, who was now holding a glass bottle of coke.

"The lovely stewardess asked if you want something to drink. There's a problem on the runway."

The lovely stewardess was a redhead, with big green eyes and a lovely smile. Exactly Charlie's type.

"Whiskey please," He said, "Neat." He added, as an afterthought.

"Ew," Charlie told him and caught the straw for his drink in his mouth. The lovely stewardess didn't flinch and just handed him his glass.

"This is a grown-up drink." He informed Charlie, "You're drinking something they give children at church dances so they feel part of the adults table."

"Yeah but this tastes good." He countered, before turning his attention back to his postcards. He'd never seen Charlie drink anything other than tea and water. No, he'd had one glass of champagne (sorry, sparkling wine) at Christmas a couple of years ago. But usually, tea and water. He took a sip of his whiskey and found it almost unpalatable in its bitterness.

Damn. Maybe he should have asked for ice. He looked down at the glass and sat tiny ripples in the amber surface. He blinked and realized that his hands were shaking. They weren't even in the air yet and his hands were shaking. Setting the glass down, he did the only thing he could think to do in this situation, and stuffed his hands under his thighs; sitting on them.

"Are you okay?" Charlie asked, frowning.

"I'm fine." He said, sharply.

"If you say so."

He did say so, and he was glad to be traveling with the only one of his subordinates who seemed to listen to him. He might consider Charlie his friend, but he knew where to draw the line and that was discussing anything too personal. He didn't ask Charlie about his messy love life, and Charlie didn't dig too deeply into his past. Exactly what he wanted in a friendship.

He must have lost track of time, before the lovely stewardess came around again, collecting bottles and cups.

"Whiskey not to your liking?" She asked as she removed his almost untouched glass.

"Whiskey was fine." He assured her, "I just overestimated how much I like to day drink." and topped it off with a smile. Who said he couldn't be as charming as Charlie when he wanted to be? The lovely stewardess took his glass and continued to push her cart down the large laneway.

"We must be getting ready to take off," Charlie said as he started to pack away his complimentary postcards and books into a pocket under the table. In his hands, Matthew noticed his well-loved copy of 'Bush Studies' which was to be expected, but also 'The Great Gatsby' and, curiously, 'Frankenstein'. Just how much reading did he think he was going to get done anyway?

He jumped in his seat as the massive engines on either side of the plane started to rev up, and he placed his hands flat on the table in front of him to stop them from shaking.

"Are you okay?" Charlie asked again, looking at him with an expression so caring he almost wanted to punch it off his face.

"I'm fine." He grits out.

As they finally began to taxi down the runway, he closed his eyes and grit his teeth. Only a couple of minutes. Just a couple of minutes and they'd be in the air. A slideshow began to play behind his eyes of the other men who hadn't been as lucky as him. The feeling of hot metal in his side. The way his ears popped when they got into the air. His head filling with dizzyness. Hot sticky blood-

Someone had grabbed his hand. He gripped as tightly as he could, eye still shut, trying to convince himself that he was still safe. He was on a plane, but he was safe. He'd made it out alive. He'd done good, he'd done a lot of good.

There was an almighty bang.

The whole metal beast they were righting in shook and he knew the must have crashed. The plane was probably in ruins, and if he opened his eyes he was convinced all he'd see was bloodshed. Gunfire, blood, guts, hot wind, dust. Charlie wasn't a soldier, he didn't deserve to see that. He couldn't breathe, he must be trapped under something. He needed to move before he was crushed but he couldn't.

He couldn't do anything except -

"Just breathe, okay? With me. In and out."

In and out. In, and then out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. He tried to focus.

"Tell me something you can smell."

"Smoke." He answered the air was thick with the stuff. It was choking him.

"What kind of smoke?" He took in another lungful.

"...Cigarette." He answered.

"What can you feel?"

"My waistcoat is too tight."

"And hear?" He focused in as well as he could, trying to listen and what he heard was...Chatter. People talking, chatting away. A child playing with her mother. The sound of glasses clinking but… He opened his eyes. They were all still alive, and even more than that, they were flying.

Charlie was still alive, and looking at him intently.

"Are you back with me?" He asked. Matthew looked down to realize he still had a white-knuckled grip on his hand. Embarrassed, he let go. Charlie didn't.

"I'm fine." He said, sharply, before clearing his throat. "Where did you learn that?" He asked though he was pretty sure he knew the answer already. Blake must have taught him at some point like he seemed to have done everything.

"Just what I used to do with my old man." He replied, "Fireworks...He couldn't stand 'em." Charlie said it so casually like he was so used to seeing other people's trauma that it didn't seem like a big thing to him anymore.

"Well, thank you." He said, gruffly. He shook Charlie's hand away and spread his fingers on the table. "It won't happen again."

"Okay." Charlie said, settling in with his postcards, "Do you want to read one of my books? Might help."

"I brought my own." He replied but didn't pull it out, just focused in on the sound of Charlie's pen.


End file.
